“Yes. I need a little concern from you for your young star. Toby is still sitting in a police car, waiting for that detective to talk to him. It’s inhumane.’’

“You’re a lawyer. File a lawsuit.’’

“Someone had to have loaded that gun, Paul. It wasn’t Toby.’’

I wondered how Barbara was so sure of that.

“If Norman were here,’’ her voice was taunting, “he’d have worked things out by now.’’

“Yeah?’’ Paul stared at her. “Well, Norman’s not here, may he rest in peace. And there’s not a thing I can do about the fact that he’s dead, or that one of my actors shot my assistant director with a gun that was supposed to be loaded with blanks. How about we let the police do their job, Barbara? Aren’t they still out there, combing the scene?’’

She nodded.

“So, once they finish investigating, we’ll get everything sorted out.’’

Their eyes locked. I hoped birds and small animals stayed out of the charged space between them. Finally, Barbara blinked.

“Fine. Enjoy your floozies.’’ She shot three withering glances, one each for Mama, Marty, and me, and then stomped away.

Paul didn’t watch her go. He was staring intently at Mama, Floozy No. 1. “Barbara just gave me an idea. I see you as a beautiful dancehall girl for the scene where all the cowboys blow their money on women and liquor.’’ He put a hand on her chin, lifted it toward what was left of the sunlight. “I’m not kidding. The camera is going to love this face.’’

Paul’s fingers were tracing the still-smooth line of Mama’s cheek when Sal blustered onto the scene. His face was as dark as a stormy sky over Lake Okeechobee. “We haven’t had the pleasure,’’ he said to Paul, “though I see you’ve met my wife.’’

Hollywood, say hello to New York City. Ego, meet Ego.

“Chill, dude,’’ Paul caressed Mama’s face before dropping his hand from her cheek. “I didn’t mean any harm.’’

The woman who shunned the spotlight didn’t give her husband time to respond before she gushed, “I’m getting a part in the movie, Sally!’’

“Fuhgeddabout it, Rosie.’’ His eyes still bored into Paul. “Everybody’s heard stories about dis ‘dude.’ Paul Watkins is trouble with a capital T, and you’re a married woman. I forbid it.’’

Mama got out of the chair, and pulled herself up to her full height. She barely reached Sal’s chest, but still she stared him down. Her eyes were narrowed, firing off sparks.

“Uh-oh,’’ Marty whispered.

“You said it,’’ I agreed.

We both took a few steps backward, putting ourselves out of collateral damage range.

“Meet me at my Jeep, Mama. I’ll give you a ride to the salon,’’ I shouted over my shoulder, hurrying off with Marty.

Once we were far enough away, my sister said, “That could get ugly.’’

“For Sal, anyway,’’ I said. “Mama will flatten him like an armadillo on State Road 98 if he tries to come between her and that spotlight she claims to hate.’’

The bells on the purple door at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow jangled. As we came in, Betty Taylor’s last customer of the day left.

“Whew.’’ The salon owner exhaled. “This has sure been a day!’’

“Honey, you have no idea!’’

Mama plopped herself at the small table where she does her color charts, and launched into a long recitation of the events of her day.

As I escaped off to the side, behind the cover of a People magazine, she led off with Norman Sydney berating her, barely mentioning his murder in passing. She sidetracked from Paul Watkins returning to the set, to focus on what she believed was the day’s headline: the casting coup for Fierce Fury Past.

“Oh, Rosalee,’’ Betty clapped her hand to her cheek. “You’re going to be a star! Maybe you’ll get a scene with Greg Tilton.’’

Mama gave a modest flutter of her lashes. “Well, honey, it’s not 100 percent set in stone yet.’’

From her nexus at Gossip Central, Betty was able to offer us a tidbit, too: “My sister-in-law’s cousin’s daughter works at the hospital. She says that director who got shot is going to be okay.’’

“Assistant director, honey. We call him the AD in the movie business.’’

Behind my magazine, I rolled my eyes.

Betty pointed her purple styling comb toward the pile of fabric swatches and folders, untouched on Mama’s table. “So, how are you coming with that color chart, Rosalee?’’

Color Me Beautiful, the folders said in purple script across the front.

“Don’t fret, Betty. This won’t take but a few minutes to put together. Lori from the Chamber has the same coloring as Mace. She’s a pure Winter, just like Mace. I know the colors that will flatter her the most. I could pick them out in my sleep.’’

I lifted my face out of People. “It’s true, Betty. She could. She’s only told me a thousand times or so exactly what colors I should wear.’’

Mama speaks with authority on the topic. For $35, she gives a diagnosis on whether a Hair Today customer is a Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall. She offers counsel on wearing warm tones or cool ones, dark colors or pastels. She also throws in an aromatherapy candle, and the cardboard folder with fabric samples in colors to beautifully complement eyes, skin tone, and hair.

She leaned over and held a bubble gum-colored swatch to my face. I’d sooner be hog-tied and dunked in a pit full of gators than wear pink.

“I just want you to make the most of what God gave you, honey. Is that so wrong?’’

“Your mama is one-hundred percent right, Mace.’’ Betty approached with a gleam in her eye, wielding that comb like a weapon. “When are you going to let me go to work on that gorgeous hair of yours? It has so much potential.’’

I tented the People over my head, protecting every snarl and split end of my thick, black hair. “I was just here. How could I forget those Scarlett O’Hara ringlets you gave me for Mama’s wedding?’’

“That was over three months ago.’’ Betty picked up a pair of scissors and made snip-snip noises around my ears.

“Oh, leave her alone, honey. If Mace wants to go around looking like a possum crawled in her hair and built itself a nest, that’s her business.’’

Betty sighed, and holstered her scissors. I let out the breath I’d been holding. Inhaling, I got a nose full of the shop’s warring scents: fruity shampoos and flowery conditioner, nail polish and permanent solution. I’m sure some people found a beauty parlor’s signature smell pleasing, but it made me think of a fruit roll-up dipped in ammonia.

Ducking behind the magazine again, I made my way through pictures of fashion faux pas from the Hollywood red carpet, through a story about a 911-dialing dog that saved his owner, and through a profile of the movie industry’s troubled young stars. Jesse was prominently featured, slouching in a booth at some New York nightclub. Her eyes were at half-mast; she clutched a drink and cigarette in her hand.

“Mace, what are you so interested in over there? Why don’t you come over and tell me what you think of the chart I’ve put together?’’

“I’m just getting to a story about a family that staged a kidnapping of one of their kids so they could get on a reality TV show.’’

Shaking her head, Betty stabbed a handful of combs into a sterilizing solution. “What is wrong with people today?’’

“Some folks will do anything to be famous,’’ Mama said. “Forget about the trash in that magazine, honey. We’ve got a better story right here in Himmarshee than anything in People.’’

Mama ran a glue stick across the top edge of some of the intense Winter colors I knew by heart: royal blue, imperial red, emerald green. She pressed them into her folder. I hoped poor Lori Whoever wouldn’t mind being bossed by Color Me Beautiful.